the invisible hand

on faith, fatherhood, and inheritance

i recently remembered being taught how to ride a bike. my first bike was small and red, if i remember correctly. with many extra wheels to make sure i didn’t fall over. my mom and dad were right there beside me, cheering me on. as i took off the training wheels and gained my confidence, my dad remained firm. he got me a bigger, yellow bike for boys. i was always going too fast for my mom’s liking. i had nearly forgotten all about that, it was so comforting to have the memory return me.

when i was a child, i would wait with huge anticipation to hear my dad hoot at the gate when he came home. it was my responsibility to open the gate for him, of course. but the reward was that he would sit me on his lap as he drove in, and for twenty seconds, i could put my hands on the steering wheel and be his copilot. he was in charge of changing the gears and moving the car as slowly as possible. i was in charge of directing the vehicle. this daily ritual meant the world to me.

eventually, when i was tall enough to reach the pedals, my dad taught me to drive on my own. he would pick a saturday and wake me up to let me know that “siyaqhuba ke namhlanje. you are a big girl now.” he would drive us out to an isolated area, by the most beautiful dam and give me a lecture as we were on our way. that driving is just like riding a bike. the physics is the same. gear one is for big pushes, uphill. gear five is for the least resistance, imagine the wind on your face when letting your bike go freely downhill. eyes on the road. memorise the pedals, looking at the gear is discouraged. i am here to help. never panic.

my father is the invisible hand in the matters of my life. he always has been. every decision has been guided somehow by him. he earned my trust every day, and engaged me on topics that a lot of fathers would rather not when it comes to their daughters. when i was on my period and my mom was away, he diligently bought me my favourite sweets alongside my order of tween pads - the Always ones with the stars and colours. he listened to all my music and always asked me to repeat his favourites. in the time of burning mixes on cd’s, he made a folder of all the songs i love and made me a personalised mix for when we go on road trips. this was before the aux and big bluetooth. he loved thabo mbeki. he loved his own father and home. his favourite colour was brown. i learnt so much from him. a man of steady nature, disciplined and curious. my mom tells me that he used to insist that he would die at 33, like jesus naturally. he was funny.

utata wam and i. forever.

i’m writing this because for the first time in a long time, i thought about my dad outside of the realm of grief that i tend to resign him to. i genuinely believe that i got the perfect father for me. to be honest, both of my parents have felt particularly made for me. it has been an honour to experience their willingness to understand and accept me. and i feel very grateful that i still have my mom here with me, but it is always sobering to meditate on the loss of my father.

i say that he was the invisible hand because after he was gone, the gaps he left behind were boundless. no amount of patching and filling and absorbing could help. he really was just a mountain. i could ask him anything and trust him to have a solution or an answer. no one else could do that. my uncles fell short. i had no dependable brothers. everyone tried, and it wasn’t in vain, but no one was him. he hated bubble gum, so i don’t really chew bubble gum. he hated smokers, so i do not smoke. he hated mistakes, so i berate myself a lot when i make mistakes. i still doubt that he could possibly be proud of me. on the right type of night, i still get insecure about my drinking because i can imagine him being unimpressed. he did not drink. it has been a huge part of my life’s work to make him proud. he was kind, but also the dad to occasionally ask why 97% and not 100% if i share my test marks - “umshiyela bani la 3?”. strict, but at least i knew that if i do well, we have a mandatory family date at spur to celebrate my achievements.

i think about him a lot in adulthood. i had not really experienced true hardship and failure before he passed. but after he did, it was blow after blow. when i knew he was always a call away, i felt invincible. i fought with my teachers proudly if i felt that they were wrong. i never backed down from difficulty. i could withstand. somehow, it was as if he took the wind in my sails with him. and i quickly realised that he was the rudder of my life. i could withstand because i knew how important it was to make him proud, to show him that he did well with me, to take the baton from him and go beyond. once, i got very upset with him because i felt he loved all the other kids more than me. he was so nice to them and always cheerful and he did not expect so much. he definitely didn’t expect from them what i felt he did from me. he just said “they need that more than you. you have always had me.” unfortunately, he was right. and it has been hard to adjust to a life without him. i think about him every day.

when i went to boarding school, he complained that i never say “i love you” at the end of our calls, but i always say it to my mom. but i had assumed he did not need that, he rarely said it himself. i always had him and he could show me better than he could tell me. but there was nothing much he could do for me if i was 398km away. we both started practicing to say “i love you” until it stopped feeling awkward. this helped for when i left for university and i was now 1167km away from him.

anyway, he is an integral part of my myth. as i interrogate who i am and who i want to be, the person i want be is a lot of him. he wrote poetry as a young man, and apparently once played the guitar. he religiously documented his family and his life. he always had a camera in hand. i inherited his vhs tape recorder, and all his old tapes. i inherited a lot of him. my mom says that i think too much and that i got that from him. i think we would have gotten along better now that i have grown up a bit more. there are so many questions i wish i could ask him. sometimes i ask them before bed and hope he will visit me to answer. he rarely comes anymore. i think i feel led to archival work because of him. i think i love my home and the transkei the way i do because of him. i think my faith in myself and the world is the way it is, because of him.

when i first decided to write this, i thought i would try to convey what i think fatherhood means to me. and what ideas on faith and hope and trust it gave me. i look for my father everywhere because during his life, he was always there. it has been comforting to at least know that he could still be there. an internal call away, at least. maybe if i close my eyes. i will never know if he is proud of me, but i can try to be someone he would be proud of. i hope he still likes some of my new favourite songs.